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12 de Junio, 2007
I Am Not Angry
Categorized under Poesía | Tags: Hate Groups, My Life, White Power, White Supremacists, White Supremacy
hey there, mister angry
said the small voice inside my phone
a good friend surprising me
with a happy accusation
i'm not angry i said
feeling like stammering but somehow
speaking softly instead
she asked me
laughing
if i had a "Napolean Complex" from growing up small
and i felt stunned by a lack of understanding
in myself
why are you so angry she said
and the tremble that shook my hands yesterday
the tremble she had read in my words
returned to my heart
as a flitting and flipping and a slipping into a lonely cramp
and then she was off talking about other things
and i talked about them too
listening to the ice cubes chatter in her distant hand
but i did not talk about the feelings that flood my belly
gazing upon tall, black, bent-lipped boots
propped up in the center of the livingroom
shined and with careful polish enshrined and
waiting for their owner and his well-shaven skull and his
swastika tattoos and
i did not talk about the feelings that lap at my sternum like cold oceans rising
when i see my daughter excitedly waving her hands to the song
playing on the downstairs computer
too young to know what Dachau Vacation means
the happy little girl thinks all music is joyful
i did not talk to my friend about Napolean, nor about a solution, nor any more about my problem, nor about the shadows
that dance
now
in the dusty windows
of this home where hate sleeps sound
and i lie awake
listening
for an old door to groan open
anger is warm
and proud and
i feel awash with a cold rush
like a frantic wind
like blood flowing in the palms again
like a drowning sand
like a tsunamic demand
i feel a quaking under my feet and in these bones
that threaten to make a spear of me
that wish to spread my skin like a banner
and wrap it around the face of a man
until his hollow heart and his fishgut hands still themselves
and i would make a gift to the world
with a tiny new silence
angry? no. i am not angry.
and though it appears i am quiet these days
that is not true either.
i am a horrific storm in a small human form
i am nature in her very last promised reward
i am a nation of slaughtered children
a ghost waving twelve million arms
i am a bloated smile slipping through a noose
and you can touch me if you want
you can find out if you choose
but please believe me
when i say
a small voice in my place
no—
i am not angry
spoken poem here
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